Growing up in Washington, DC, was like navigating a labyrinth with an odd name strapped to my identity and the complex heritage of an African American mother and a father hailing from Liberia, West Africa. My Dad's heavy Liberian accent echoed through our home, parent-teacher conferences, and public displays of discipline. It reminded me of our roots, a mixing bowl of fried chicken, dry rice, and pepper sauce. Yet, it also created a stark contrast against the backdrop of American culture.
Caught between these two worlds, I often felt like I was toggling between two distinct personas. On one hand, Zuo, affectionately nicknamed Zo, embodied the African stereotype that haunted me relentlessly. "African booty Scratcher," their taunts echoed in the hallways of my school, where after school, I went to the carryout and ate fried chicken and mumbo sauce. On the other hand, there was Zuogwi, a name that whispered of tradition and familial ties, of a heritage rooted in Liberia. Zuogwi craved the taste of cassava leaf and potato greens dishes that carried the flavors of home and comfort. It was a dish I longed for, a tangible connection to my father's homeland amidst the dissonance of American life. Yet, even as I savored the familiarity of cassava leaf and potato greens, I couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place or not fitting into either world entirely.
The majority of the weekends with my Dad were tied between life and death. Legitimately, we would attend wakes on Friday and funerals that would last all day on Saturday. Oddly enough, if the person lived long enough, that repast would turn into house parties and other weekend weddings and graduation parties. Straddling between the two lives, I found myself in this secret dwelling place of existence, crafting a love for Go Go and enjoying Highlife, Afro Beats, citing Jay Z to my Cousin Drew and investing in learning how to dance to decalé and catching the complex African Beats rhythm and learning the complex storytelling of Kanye and one of Fela Kuti. Internalizing these experiences as my own space and still feeling Joy intertwined into a unique cultural DNA experience that simultaneously made me feel half but whole. A delicate dance of balance until one might spill over, and I would crave the other.
Just before I went to college, my twin sisters Sheryl and Sherylene took me to a party called Mirage, a nightclub we had no business being able to go to at 16 years old. It was an experience of people slightly older than me and my age enjoying the music I had heard from the Repast and Parties on the weekend. I found that to be cool yet frightening at the same time cause, you know, the only thing I knew to do was drink a Heineken like I had seen my Uncles do and chill. That was the first time I wasn't with immediate family and had been out to the crack of dawn.
Over time, having to switch accents and an unsurmountable amount of exposure, I decided to embrace my robust African self with my American self. Watching two universes collide, My secret space was collecting all the new music I could and trying to stay on top of all the jams, memorizing the new music and recollecting the old.
Most of that all mixed into a complex pepper soup when my Dad passed unexpectedly, and I was told that my brothers and I would lose the whole connection to Liberia. Right around that moment, Wizkid hit the scene, and Drake also inserted himself with the all-time Classic Ojuelegba, which, through the media of WizKid music video, you can tell was an origin story anchored in his tribal language. When I saw my brothers singing the song and Drake's verse, I began to understand that it wasn't just me but a collective of people looking to sing new songs. Watching them sing felt like a kind of subtle rebirth, a sense of a song our Dad tried to instill in us—a blues note in the cadence of talking drums and call-and-response, claps and signs of existence, between dialect and hums. In reality, our cousins and family friends had very European/ American names, while we had the hard Bassa Name and listened to teachers butcher it for 12-15 years. It felt like a clarion call to embrace who we are and sing our song in the collective sounds being made.
By the time we get to the Global pandemic, we have the creative expression of Beyoncé's work black Is King on Disney. It was a transformative moment, not just for me but for many within the diaspora community, bringing the diasporic global sound into conversation with the content. Beyoncé's visual album celebrated Blackness, a glorification of African culture and heritage, weaving together elements of tradition and modernity in a tapestry of stunning visuals and powerful music.
As I watched "Black Is King," I felt a profound connection to my roots, the stories and the traditions that shaped my identity. Beyoncé's homage to African culture resonated deeply with me, reminding me of the richness and beauty of my heritage. Through her artistry, she bridged the gap between continents, inviting viewers into a world where African culture was celebrated and embraced without reservation.
The imagery in "Black Is King" was striking, evoking a sense of pride and nostalgia as it paid tribute to African customs and traditions. From the vibrant colors of traditional clothing to the rhythmic beats of Afro-beat music, every frame was a testament to the diversity and resilience of the African people. It was a celebration of Black excellence, a reminder that our stories are worthy of being told and celebrated globally.
But beyond its aesthetic beauty, "Black Is King" also served as a powerful commentary on the complexities of identity and belonging. Like me, many in the diaspora struggle to reconcile their African heritage with their American upbringing, navigating the tensions between the two worlds with grace and resilience. Beyoncé's portrayal of this journey was both poignant and empowering, offering a glimpse into the struggles and triumphs of Black people worldwide.
During a global pandemic that disproportionately impacted communities of color, "Black Is King" offered a much-needed message of hope and resilience. It reminded us that our culture and heritage are sources of strength and inspiration, even in adversity. Through her art, Beyoncé encouraged us to embrace our roots, celebrate our heritage's richness, and stand proudly in our identity as Black people.
For me, "Black Is King" was more than just a visual album—it reaffirmed who I am and where I come from. It reminded me that my identity is not defined by the taunts of others or the expectations of society but by the rich tapestry of culture and tradition that runs through my veins. As I watched Beyoncé's masterpiece unfold, I felt a sense of pride and belonging wash over me, knowing that my story—and the stories of countless others like me—deserve to be told and celebrated. I also observe the impact of Beyonce's opening streams and the opportunity for mainstream artistry.
Over the years, Drake and Beyoncé's collaborative introduction has become synonymous with the emergence of numerous artists. Yet, let's acknowledge a distinct phenomenon: if you're a resident of the DMV (Washington D.C., Maryland, and Virginia), Saturday nights bring a special radio broadcast spotlighting Afro-beat. This isn't a coincidence; it's a response to the region's burgeoning population, which is increasingly diverse and embraces Afro-beat sounds.
We've been privileged to encounter a rich tapestry of musical talents in this vibrant cultural milieu. From the melodic rasp of Tems to the enchanting chants of Ayra Starr and the enduring presence of Davido, these artists have become integral to the community's sonic landscape.
Tems captivates with her soulful delivery, weaving emotions into every note she sings. Ayra Starr's enchanting chants transport listeners to realms of bliss and introspection, offering a unique sonic experience. And then there's Davido, a stalwart in the Afro-Beat scene, whose influence and contributions have resonated through generations. Acknowledging Burna Boy's profound influence on the Afro-beat scene and his innovative approach to genre-bending as an artist is imperative. His impact has transcended boundaries, paving the way for fellow artists deeply rooted in the culture, much like Fela Kuti did in his time. Burna Boy's exploration of different musical styles while staying true to The essence of Afro-beat echoes the pioneering spirit of Fela. Notably, Burna Boy's contributions have expanded the global reach of Afro-beat, making it more accessible to diverse audiences worldwide. His fusion of traditional African sounds with contemporary elements has reinvigorated the genre, attracting a new generation of listeners. Just as Fela Kuti used his platform to address social and political issues, Burna Boy continues this tradition by infusing his music with messages of empowerment and activism. Burna Boy is a torchbearer for Afro-beat's evolution, carrying the legacy of trailblazers like Fela Kuti into the modern era.
Asake embodies the essence of cultural divination through art, drawing inspiration from the experiences of Fela and Burna Boy. Like Fela's unapologetic activism and Burna Boy's fusion of Afro-beat with global sounds, Asake channels the spirit of cultural critique. Through his work, he navigates the complexities of tradition and modernity, challenging societal norms and sparking conversations about identity, heritage, and social justice. With a profound understanding of history and a keen eye for contemporary issues, Asake serves as a critical voice, shedding light on the intricacies of culture and shaping the discourse on cultural evolution in a rapidly changing world. Asake broke out with many songs that are essentially bangers, but he has placed modern Religious practices in most of his songs <PBUY>. He uses the greeting in most Islamic practices. We also see in his new video he is taking a very sound critique of Westernized Christian Only Me, tapping into the richness of diasporic sound, taking Fela's critique of colonialism and religion further than he could because of the use of the medium of Visiual to give more language to Fela.
I've bestowed upon this piece that resonates deeply within me: "The Diasporic Sound." It encapsulates a singular truth that binds us all—a clarion vision that echoes through the corridors of our collective existence: there exists a beat. It's more than just rhythm; it's a pathway, a calling—a sound beckoning us to delve deeper into the realms of our radicalism.
As Afro-beat and Amapiano ascend to the forefront of musical consciousness, so too do the voices of our friends wielding the tools of Biblical Litteralist criticism. It's a convergence of cultural movements, each offering its unique perspective and narrative, yet all intricately linked by this pulsating rhythm that transcends boundaries.
In this era of globalization and interconnectedness, the diasporic sound serves as a unifying force, weaving together threads of heritage, identity, and resistance. It's a symphony of voices, blending the ancestral rhythms of Africa with the contemporary beats of the global south, all while challenging the status quo and inviting us to reimagine our world anew.
This melodic tapestry lies a more profound resonance—a call to action, a demand for transformation. The diasporic sound isn't just about music; it's a metaphor for the collective struggle for liberation and emancipation. It urges us to confront the systems of oppression that seek to silence us and to amplify our voices in solidarity with those who are marginalized and disenfranchised.
Let Art be Art, and leave your ill Logical offense with the People you play with On Sunday.
Here is a curated Playlist of songs I think will be 2024 bangers